Atlanta Extreme (13 page)

“Yes, ma'am, I'm real sorry to trouble you.”

So Hawker had connected a tiny, two-wired transmitter to the line—it would blur the reception of the inside phone slightly—then drove five more miles toward his cottage where he climbed a telephone pole and, on the very top of it, mounted a Walkman-size relay that would boost the signal of the transmitter and send it cleanly the next six miles to Hawker's cottage where he had a tape recorder set up with a sound-activating device tuned to the proper frequency.

Hawker installed the same kind of transmitter and booster on the business line that fed into the warehouse office.

Now he could monitor all calls that Jon and Cathy Sanders received.

All there was to do then was wait. Wait until either Pendleton or Warren contacted them and demanded more money. Or wait until they made their whereabouts known to him. And Hawker knew they would.

So thirteen days went by without a lead; thirteen days of listening to Cathy Sanders talk to her mother, her pediatrician, her brother in Athens, her sister in Tupelo; thirteen days of listening to Jon Sanders buy, sell, and deal in tobacco and cotton. And in each of their voices, clear on the recorder, was a tightness, an anxiety, a remoteness that told Hawker clearly enough that they were living in fear. For the young couple every morning brought another day spent in hell. Their money was being drained from them. And the lives of their children were in danger. And there wasn't a thing in the world they could do about it.

Hawker wondered how many other couples in Georgia were living in the exact same kind of terror because of Pendleton and Warren.

Then finally the break came.

On a Wednesday night the telephone at the Sanders's house rang.

“We gonna be making our monthly collection Friday night, Mr. Sanders,” a deep, soft voice said. There was a long silence. “Mr. Sanders? You there, ol' buddy?”

Hawker recognized the voice of Jon Sanders. “I'm here. How much do ya'll want?”

“Let me see now, five for your kind donation, plus another single for expenses. Six to make it a nice round figure.”

“Last month it was only five.”

“Last month was last month, friend. You do what you damn well want. But you know what's going to happen if you don't produce.”

Sanders's voice was weary. “I'll produce. When and where?”

“Let's say the warehouse. 'Bout ten
P.M.
”

“I'll be there.”

“And so will I,” Hawker had whispered to the tape recorder after hearing the conversation.

Now, from the boughs of the oak, Hawker had a clear view of the warehouse and of the long dirt road that exited off the main highway, three miles away. Farther in the distance he could see the lights of two or three rural farmhouses sparkling in the distance.

The tobacco warehouse was remote; far from anyone who might hear his assault on the Curtis gang. It gave him more latitude on how to attack, a hell of a lot more latitude.

At nine-thirty
P.M.
, sure that Pendleton and Warren were not going to be early, sure that they had not posted lookouts on the roads earlier, Hawker climbed down from the tree and walked to the warehouse. Through the dusty window he could see Jon Sanders. Sanders was hunched over his desk, head in his hands. Hawker tapped on the door and watched the man start.

“Door's not locked!”

Hawker stepped in and saw the surprise on Sanders's face. “I got the money. No need for you to come armed like that.”

“I didn't come for the money, Jon,” Hawker said softly.

Sanders had a lean Nordic face and pale sandy hair. He took a step back. “You didn't come to beat me, did you? A man can't stand another beating like that last one they gave me. Besides, like I said, I got the money.”

Hawker held his hands outward, palms open. “I'm not here to hurt you, Jon, and I'm not with Pendleton and Warren.”

“Then who in hell—” His face grew even more worried. “Jesus Christ, you're not a policeman, are you? I'm telling you, mister, if you're a policeman, just get the hell out. Now! I mean it. They'll kill my little boy and girl. They will. Even if you arrest those two, they got plenty of others working for them. And I ain't having my kids' heads cut off like that little boy in Marietta and those two little girls down in Macon. The police figure that it's some crazy child molester, but I
know
who did it. The daddies of those kids tried to get help. Well, I ain't asking for any help, mister, and I ain't taking any help. It ain't worth risking the lives of my children.”

Hawker continued to speak softly, confidently, trying to instill calm in the man. “I'm not a policeman, Jon. I'm a friend. I know exactly what I'm doing, and I'm going to help you. But first you have to let me help.”

“I'm not going to endanger my kids—”

“Your children are going to be just fine, Jon. I promise you that. Trust me.”

“Trust you, hell! I don't even know you.”

“There's the phone. Call Andrew Watkins.” Hawker held out his palm where he had written the number. “There's the number. Go ahead, we don't have much time.”

“Senator Watkins?”

“Jon, if you want to spend the rest of your life living in fear, I'll leave. But if you're tired of it, if you want it all ended tonight, call.”

Sanders hesitated, then picked up the phone. Hawker waited, then smeared the numbers on his palm after the man had dialed.

“Hello? Senator Watkins? This here is Jon Sanders up at—Oh, you were expecting my call? The reason I'm calling is—” Sanders's face became quizzical, and he put down the phone. “All the senator said was that the reddish-haired man can be trusted completely. He gave me his word of honor. Then he hung up.”

Hawker lifted his black watch cap enough for Sanders to see his hair. “So now will you do as I say?”

“But what are you going to do when those guys get here?”

“You don't need to know what I'm going to do, Jon. All you need to know is what you're going to do. You're going to get on the phone right now and tell your wife to pack a bag for you and the kids. Tell her to phone her brother in Athens and tell him that you're coming to spend the night—”

“How'd you know she's got a brother in Athens?”

“It's my business to know things, Jon, but you're wasting time. When you get home, you are going to load the car immediately, and you are going to drive to the first open gas station. There you will refuel, buy snacks, whatever you need, and make sure you strike up a conversation with the attendant. Can you do that?”

“John Knight or his son, Billy, are usually at the Esso station till midnight.”

“Good. Talk to them. Make sure they remember you. Tell them your house is being fumigated in the morning and that you have to spend the night in Athens with your brother-in-law. Mention the time to him. Tell him your watch is off and you want to check his.”

“But my house isn't being fumigated.”

“Yes, it is. I arranged it all, paid for in advance. They'll be at your house early tomorrow. You won't be able to move back in until the day after tomorrow, and you decided at the last minute that it would just be easier to drive over to Athens tonight. Tomorrow afternoon give Senator Watkins a call. Ask him how things are going. If he says everything's just fine, it means it's safe to return to your house. If he says he's been feeling a little tired, stay in Athens. He'll be in touch and will help you make arrangements for a safe place to stay until this thing is all cleared up. Do you have all that, Jon? It's important that you do exactly as I say.”

“Well, yes, I guess so … but are you sure you should be doing this?”

“I'm sure, Jon. And one more thing: What's inside the old wooden building next door?”

“Nothing, really. Junk. Trash. We're going to have it razed in early September when the heavy rains start.”

“Good. When you leave, turn out the lights here and lock the doors. Does the old building have lights?”

“Yeah, it's got lights.”

“Then turn on the lights in there and leave the doors wide-open. Got it?”

The man nodded.

“Then get going, Jon. Now.”

Hawker stepped back outside and began to let the door close, but Sanders called after him, “Hey, wait!”

“Yeah?”

“Just who in the hell are you, anyway?”

“A friend, Jon. Just a friend.”

Hawker found a hiding place in a clump of bushes. He watched Sanders lock the corrugated steel building, watched him open the wooden building, flick on the lights, then drive off.

The vigilante waited … waited … urinated onto the grass … waited some more.

At ten-twenty
P.M.
he saw car lights approaching. Then another set of car lights.

Damn
, he whispered.

Two fast cars skidded around the bend and roared into the parking lot: a big dark Cadillac and a gaudy new pickup truck on giant tires.

Four men got out of the Cadillac. Three got out of the pickup. Several of them carried sawed-off shotguns, others handguns. Of all Hawker had read of Pendleton and Warren, of all he had heard—and it wasn't much—he'd had no idea that they were traveling with a gang.

There were seven of them, seven big, heavily armed, dangerous men. And Hawker was going to have to find a way of dealing with all of them.

The tallest of them, a huge, solid man with shoulder-length black hair wearing combat boots and fatigues, Hawker immediately marked as Pendleton. In his right hand he carried what looked to be a small metal box with a tube sticking out of one end.

The vigilante recognized it for what it was: an Uzi submachine gun.

From the driver's side of the pickup a smaller man with shoulder-length blond hair got out. He immediately took charge. It was Warren.

“Two of you men stay with the vehicles,” he ordered. “Josh, you mosey on back down the road a hundred meters or so and keep your eyes open for visitors. We don't want no surprises. If you see something suspicious, give me two shots. Got it?”

“Got it!”

“The rest of you boys come with Shawn and me. Keep your weapons on safety. We shouldn't have any trouble with this guy.”

“But, Greg, there's no car here. Hell, you think he even showed up?”

“After he read the news stories about them two little girls in Macon, you're damn right he showed up. He's inside that building. Hell, he probably crawled on his belly—that's how scared the little shit is. And if he's not here, you can damn sure bet he'll be pulling up any minute.”

Hawker watched the men separate—something about which he was not pleased. It was now impossible to take them all by surprise.

He watched two of the men position themselves by the cars, a third walk alone into the darkness of the dirt road, and the other two follow Pendleton and Warren into the building.

Quickly then, Hawker formed an alternate plan. None of them could escape. None of them could leave alive, for it would mean that Jon Sanders and his family would live under a shadow of fear for the rest of their lives.

No, he had to kill them all. And he had to do it quickly, effectively, and, in the beginning at least, quietly.

Quickly the vigilante slung the Colt Commando back over his shoulder. Then the vigilante pulled up the cuff of his jeans and drew the cold, heavy weight of his attack knife.…

fifteen

Hawker moved quietly and quickly along the ditch at the edge of the dirt road.

He held the knife low so that its polished blade would not glimmer in the moonlight.

Ahead, still walking slowly down the road, he could see the dim outline of the gang member. The man carried the sawed-off shotgun over his shoulder, barrel in hand, like a duck hunter after a long day in the field. Hawker watched as the man slowed at a clump of trees, then took a seat beneath a large oak.

The vigilante angled away from the road and into the tobacco field. On his belly and elbows he began to crawl toward the tree.

The tobacco plants smelled slightly sour, touched with some kind of chemical odor like pesticide.

Every few minutes he would poke his head up above the plants to see exactly where he was. When he was behind the oak tree, he began to cut across the rows, made his way silently through the bushes, then halted there for a few moments, waiting.

The man still lounged against the oak. He kept humming to himself, snapping his fingers occasionally, and it took the vigilante a moment to see that he had the tiny foam earphones of a Walkman clamped over his ears. He was listening to music, and in his right hand he held a tiny, torpedo-shaped cigarette. Hawker could smell the sickly sweet odor, and he knew that it was marijuana.

Calmly the vigilante stood, holding the knife at hip level. He tried to remember if he had ever killed a defenseless man so cold-bloodedly.

No.

But this wasn't just any case. This man was part of a gang that beat innocent men and women; a gang that, by Warren's own admission, had been responsible for the deaths—the beheadings—of two children in Macon and probably a third child in Marietta.

Yes, this case was different. Hawker knew that to succeed he had to be just as brutal, just as merciless as Curtis and his gang.

The vigilante took two slow steps toward the tree; he waited. Still the man did not move.

Calmly, coldly then, in one swift, sure motion, he grabbed the man by the hair, yanked his head back, and swept the razor edge of the attack knife across the man's throat, through the plasticlike gristle of his windpipe.

The man kicked on the ground wildly, neck pouring blood, eyes wide-open, hands clawing at his throat, then lay still.

The vigilante cleaned his knife on the grass, holstered it in the leg sheath, then trotted back toward the warehouse.

Six more to go.

It had taken him just over seven minutes to stalk and kill the first guard. He knew that inside the warehouse Warren, Pendleton, and the other two men would be getting antsy, tired of waiting on Sanders.